


Burns Don't Heal Like Before

by Fanhag102



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A lot of Derek feels, Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Established Relationship, Kate is the devil, M/M, past underaged sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanhag102/pseuds/Fanhag102
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<em>I fucked him.</em>” </p><p>She says, low and clear, a proud smile stretched across her bubblegum lips. She leans into Stiles’ space, dropping her voice as her breath ghosts over his skin.</p><p>“I <em>fucked</em> your pretty, little werewolf boyfriend—and then I <em>burned. His family. Alive.</em>”</p><p>AU where Kate didn't die at Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns Don't Heal Like Before

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Technically underage sex in this because even though Derek doesn't go all the way, he still touches Stiles in a sexual way while Stiles is only 17.  
> Small moment of noncon with Kate.  
> Voilence, might be disturbing to some.  
> FEELS. A lot of feels. 
> 
> Title comes from the Ed Sheeran song "Drunk"
> 
> "Burns don't heal like before  
> and you won't hold me anymore"
> 
> I didn't really bother coming up with a conclusive "way" Kate survived instead of died at the end of Season one. She basically just got away at some point in the confusion of teenagers throwing fire and shit and left Beacon Hills for a couple of years. And yeah.

**Burns Don’t Heal Like Before (and you won’t hold me anymore)**

****

Stiles’ spine meets with the wall in a flash of familiar pain, his eyes blacking out and ears going deaf for the faintest of seconds. Fingers curl around the back of his neck, claws retracted but digging deep enough to burn, to blister across Stiles’ skin and worm their way down to the heat already bubbling at the pit of his stomach. Only experience allows him to understand the hand on his neck keeps his head from crashing against the wall along with the curved line of his back as another body; harder, hotter, stronger than his pushes him rough and demanding, pinning him and chasing him with lips that press and teeth that bite and tongue that tastes. 

Stiles tilts his head up, the hand following the curve of his neck, thumb cupping the shell of his ear as fingertips scrape beneath his hair, tickling over his scalp. Hot breath ghosts over his lips, stubble scraping his chin. His cock is rigid and straining against the zipper of his jeans. 

“Derek, _shit_ , Derek,” his voice breaks, past the point of sanity, and the mouth just to the side of his smirks. 

“ _Asshole_ ,” he breathes, lips searching, hips pressing and gasp escaping when they find contact with the similar hardness pressed against his. He sees stars and grips the hard flesh beneath his fingers tighter, clawing and tilting his head demandingly, stealing Derek’s lips before he can try to tease again. He is answered by a low groan, almost a growl, filtered into his mouth like a filthy little secret and Stiles is _losing his mind_.

“ _Derek, Derek_ ,” he chants in between his lips pressed against others, cursing around Derek’s tongue and against his teeth, “ _fuck._ ”

“Stiles,” he feels more than hears, feels all the way down to his toes. Derek’s eyes in the dark are all he can see, but he can feel _everything_. There’s a roll of hips, pressure for the smallest of seconds, not nearly enough, not ever enough. Derek’s mouth fits over his again, biting his bottom lip then licking it away. Stiles breathes words into Derek’s mouth with each turn of a kiss. Words that mean things, and don’t mean anything; words that aren’t words, and words that only Derek, just Derek alone, would understand. One word stands out, emphasized with a desperate bid at control, one hand tight around the dip of Derek’s bare waist,

“ _More!_ ”

His voice is wrecked, barely his anymore, more like a ghost of his voice, fucked out of him by Derek’s mouth, and his hands, and the way he’s pressed against Stiles’ pelvis where the treacherous heat is centered. Derek growls low; Stiles can feel it in his chest, can taste the spice of it on his tongue. 

He chokes when Derek braces his arms firmly against the wall behind him, bending to lick the base of Stiles’ neck as he plants his hips between Stiles’ legs, effortlessly pushing his thighs further apart so that he can grind, grind down hard and slow. Sometimes Stiles’ wonders how he does it, how Derek knows just the way to make Stiles’ moan, to make him feel like there’s nothing else in the world but the heat, and the two of them consumed by it. 

Derek’s body is tense against his, beneath his fingers as he holds on, holds to the one thing he can. Derek’s teeth are against his neck, and he grinds down again, and underneath the stars that Stiles sees he can feel a tremor coming from the body pressed flushed against his. He _loves_ this part. Derek is just barely in control, just as gone as Stiles is, grinding down more frantically, hands pawing at Stiles’ ass through his jean pockets, murmuring his name through teeth against his throat. 

“Derek, fuck, I’m gonna—“

Derek makes a sound, a choked hiss, pressing himself against Stiles cock once more, hard enough to push the pressure out, and Stiles is coming, back arched against the wall and into Derek; Derek growling into his ear, and it only lasts for a second, and then Stiles can feel and see and hear again, can feel Derek still hard against him, breathing deeply, short and fast, hands like vices on Stiles’ hips. 

And suddenly Stiles isn’t done yet. The heat fills him again, pooling low and hot, forcing a shallow groan from his mouth that Derek devours in an instant. Stiles pushes his hips back now, reaching clumsy hands to Derek’s zipper, kissing into his mouth, begging in voice and deed.

“More, come on, lemme—“

“ _Stiles!_ ” Derek growls dangerously, eyes catching Stiles’ in the dark, warning sharp in their low gleam. But Stiles doesn’t listen. 

“Fuck me, _fuck_ , Derek, just—“ He kisses Derek, biting the side of his lip, hand rubbing at the hardness beneath Derek’s boxers, wet and hot, and Stiles _wants it_ , he wants it inside him, it’s all he wants, it’s all he can think about, and Derek just turns his head to the side, rutting almost unwillingly against Stiles’ hand, forehead carefully pressed into the cool of the wall.

“I want it, Derek, fuck, I want you, want you inside me so bad—“

“ _Fuck, Stiles_ ,” Derek chokes, hand suddenly seizing around Stiles’ wrist, holding him still as come, warm even against his burning flesh, dampens the inside of Derek’s underwear and both of their hands. He groans as he comes, and Stiles holds his breath until he feels Derek’s muscles unclench, his hand released. 

He leans his head gently back against the wall, and Derek barely turns to nose at the skin beneath his ear, nipping at his neck and breathing out evenly until he can stand up straight again, swallow, and avoid looking into Stiles’ eyes. 

As his brain finally catches back up, attaining post-orgasm state of awareness, he frowns, eyeing Derek’s shadowy figure in the bare moonlight peeping in from the curtains. 

“You still won’t fuck me,” he says accusingly, and is greeted by a deep scowl and further avoidance of his gaze. He cranes his head, turning to try and meet Derek’s eyes, real anger rising just below the surface. 

“I keep asking, _begging_ , Derek, and you still won’t—“

“I told you,” Derek snaps back, then seems to regret it, shoulders slumping in, head turned even more to the side. “I told you I won’t. Not until yo—“

“Until I’m of age,” Stiles growls back, leaning against the wall, trying not to notice the sticky wetness inside his pants. “But you won’t say _why_. Look, what we just did is already illegal, so it’s not as if you give a shit about that. If this is some moral thing just _tell me_ and we can, I dunno, talk about it, come up with a—“

“There’s a reason, Stiles. I just—you have to trust me. I can’t,” his words are stinted, spoken through clenched teeth, as they have been every time they’ve had this argument, “tell you. Come on, just—just come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Stiles replies stiffly. “I have homework. And now I have to take a shower again, so, thanks for that.” 

Still mildly seething, Stiles turns and grabs a towel hanging from the back of his door. Before he can open it and exit into the hallway, Derek is pressed against his back, arms wrapping around his chest and lips just touching his ear. He shivers against the sudden heat, the sudden scent and feel of Derek against him. 

“You have to trust me, Stiles. There is a reason.” He kisses the side of Stiles’ face, holding him gently, imploringly. Stiles wills himself not to lean into the embrace, but his body betrays him. “I want to fuck you,” Derek whisper-kisses into his ear, and Stiles feels his pulse race, the thought alone enough to fuel the _want_ inside him. Then Derek is pulling away. Stiles turns to see him heading for the window. “You have to trust me.” 

“I do trust you, jerk-wad,” Stiles grumbles, and Derek moves towards him once more to place a blistering kiss into his mouth, there too fast and gone too soon. Derek is backing away and out of the window before Stiles comes to himself again. As soon as he does, there is a familiar noise and vibration in his pocket. He sighs, pulling out his phone and reading the text that Scott has just buzzed in. 

He drops the towel, wishing more than anything he hadn’t made Derek leave. 

“Fuck,” he curses, gripping his phone tight in his hand. 

Kate Argent is back in Beacon Hills. 

 

“She got here this morning,” Allison explains, frowning and worried. Scott’s hand tightens around hers. “We didn’t know she was coming. She didn’t say anything, just showed up.”

“Did she say why she’s here?” Stiles asks, pacing across the concrete floor that Derek has still refused to buy a carpet for. They’re at Derek’s apartment; him, Scott, Allison, Jackson, Isaac, Lydia, and Derek. Stiles is the only one standing, aside from Derek who is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed and eyes trained on whoever is talking. As soon as Scott sent out the mass text about Kate it was decided that an unscheduled pack meeting was necessary. Thankfully, Stiles had at least had time to shower beforehand—though hilarious, Scott’s expression when he can smell cum on Stiles actually looks sort of pained, and Stiles decided to stop torturing him after about the fiftieth time he’d seen it. 

Allison only shakes her head, hair falling over her ears. 

Kate Argent returning to Beacon Hills is the worst thing to happen in a while. Not to say bad things hadn’t happened, or even happened recently, because they had, it was just that Kate seemed so much worse. Alpha packs and kanimas and witches and rogue hunters and all other sorts of terrifying, awful problems that seem to never want to leave Beacon Hills and it’s inhabitants alone make for some trying times, Stiles is not denying that. But Kate… there’s just something about Kate, something that makes her more _personal_ , and therefore more awful and harder to deal with. 

She burnt the Hale family alive, kidnapped and tortured Derek, then tried to have Allison kill Scott _and_ Derek. Despite all the harm Jackson did as the kanima, Stiles still found him easier to forgive than Kate. 

Kate was a human. She was supposed to be sane, and caring, and even though she was a hunter, Chris Argent would never do what she did. She even looked normal, a devil in disguise, and although Stiles never had all that much interaction with her, she frightened him. It was her face that came to mind when he read the police report on the Hale fire, the body count, the _children_ , innocents that died at her hand. Stiles, who surrounded himself with monsters, gave his body over to them and _loved_ them, never thought of Scott, and Derek, even Isaac or Jackson, as the monsters. Kate was the monster, and he wished she’d died at Peter’s hand so she couldn’t return this way and haunt his and his friend’s lives like the _real_ monster that she was. 

“It’s a good thing Peter’s gone,” Lydia says, nodding seriously. Peter Hale and Lydia’s relationship was a strange one, and Stiles didn’t completely understand how she could stand the man who nearly killed her. Then again, he was dating a man who at one point threatened to rip his throat out with his teeth, so who is he to talk, really. Lydia had been frightened of him, at first. But the more she learned about Werewolves and the showdown that resulted in Peter’s death, the less frightened she was, until she wasn’t scared of any of them. Peter liked her right away, which Stiles thought had something to do with that fact that she’d been the one to resurrect him. When she wasn’t scared of him anymore she became his favorite, and probably one of the only reasons he’d stayed in the pack so long. 

He did leave eventually, though, never really saying why. No one was particularly upset to see him go, Derek most of all. He never believed that Peter wouldn’t try to take his Alpha standing from him again, and never forgave him for killing Laura either. 

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “I’m pretty sure he’d go crazy all over again if he found out she was back in Beacon Hills.” 

So that was one problem taken care of. At least they don’t have to worry about getting in the middle of another one of Peter’s revenge schemes. Still, no one doubted that Kate had returned for a reason. An anxious, sudden chill of panic sped through Stiles and he glances at Derek just to remind himself that he’s still there, still safe. If Kate had come back to finish off the Beacon Hills’ alpha, or the last of the Hales, Stiles isn’t sure what he’ll do. Probably demand that Derek remain by his side at all times. He had already lost more people than he liked, and even an unspoken threat on Derek’s life like this one makes him feel nervous, panicked. 

“What are we going to do?” he finally asks, because no one else seems to want to. 

“Nothing,” comes Derek’s harsh reply, his eyes catching Stiles’ for the faintest of seconds. “We do nothing, unless she does something first.”

“We have been really good lately,” Scott agrees, ever the optimist. “She doesn’t have any reason to come after us.”

Stiles wants to argue. Wants to make them understand that the Hale family hadn’t done anything either, they’d been innocent, they’d been good. She killed them all anyway. But Derek is watching him, gaze heavy and posture closed-off. 

Derek never talks about it, never about the fire or Kate or his family’s death, but Stiles watches, and he sees. He sees the way Derek’s eyes cloud over with pain, regret, and guilt. Stiles thinks its survivors guilt, that he should have been in that house too. Stiles wishes Derek would talk to him, that he could take some of Derek’s pain the way they can take his if he’s broken a bone or gotten a bruise from running around and being tossed into walls and trees by enemies stronger than he is. But all Derek will do is kiss him, kiss him hard and fast and messy until Stiles can’t think about Derek’s pain anymore. 

(He hopes that means Derek can’t think about it either.)

 

So, they do nothing. And it works, for a while. Things remain calm. Stiles goes to school, studies for the SAT’s—which are drawing ever nearer—and goes about life as normal. 

Maybe Derek visits his room at night more often than before, but Stiles isn’t exactly complaining—unless he is, but if he is, it’s for the perfectly reasonable reason of the seemingly never-ending argument about Derek fucking him. It isn’t that he’s really that upset about Derek not fucking him—he wants it, he isn’t going to say he doesn’t want it—but, it is more about the fact that Derek still won’t tell him why. 

But it works for them. They are always arguing about something or other anyway, and Stiles is sure Derek will tell him someday, and he _does_ trust Derek’s reason (he just didn’t think he’ll agree with it). 

Everyone works a little harder to keep a low profile. No wolfing out at lacrosse games or going on midnight runs through the woods. The full moon is a quiet affair, without even a pack meeting. Scott and Isaac come over to his house for studying (video games) and after a while Derek shows up as well, which signals to his betas to get the hell out. Scott probably meets up someone safe with Allison; Stiles doesn’t know where the hell Isaac goes. But it is uneventful, anyway, and everyone starts to relax. 

Allison keeps them updated on her aunt. Kate had tried talking and spending time with Allison at first, but was quickly turned away. She says even her father is acting coldly towards his sister, but that she hasn’t left yet. She still hasn’t said anything about why she’s come back, at least not that Allison hears. 

She and Scott have to be sneakier than ever—Allison certainly hasn’t told her aunt that she is back to dating a werewolf. She tells Scott to stay away from her house; at least until Kate leaves, and for once Scott actually listens. They spend time at the McCall house instead, and still nothing happens. Stiles is beginning to wonder if anything ever will. 

Then, almost a month after Kate Argent arrives back in Beacon Hills, there is a fire in Derek’s apartment complex. 

It doesn’t spread. No one is hurt. It’s not even on Derek’s _floor_ , and Stiles panics. Because Derek tells them that it’s Kate’s way of playing with him, declaring her intentions. 

She’s after Derek. 

 

Derek sleeps at Stiles house almost every night after that. Half the time he shows up on his own and the other half he stays because Stiles asks him too. He’s always gone in the morning, just in case Stiles’ dad comes in to wake him up (they still haven’t told him, neither of them are looking forward to it). 

Nothing else happens for another couple of weeks. Then, a travelling pack of werewolves pass through Beacon Hills and decide to stay for a few days. They aren’t like Derek and his pack. The alpha is a tool, and although they don’t necessarily have any intention of harming humans, Derek sets up a meeting to explain to them the importance of keeping a low profile, and the Argent hunters in the area that will not hesitate to come after them if they so much as stick their noses in the wrong place. 

The meeting isn’t going well. They decided on the old rail warehouse as a neutral meeting ground, and Stiles can practically see the hair on the back of the other pack’s betas’ necks sticking up. He doesn’t think they like being outnumbered, even if it is by humans. Derek and Scott spend about an hour trying to convince the other pack’s alpha that this isn’t a great place to visit if they want minimal trouble, but the asshole alpha just isn’t getting it. Stiles can see the frustrated hunch of Derek’s shoulders and calls a short break, pulling Derek towards the railcar and letting him breath and relax. 

“They’re going to get fucking killed if they keep acting this way,” he says, scowling in the other alpha’s direction. 

“You think?” Stiles replies, sighing heavily and leaning against the side of the broken down railcar. “Can’t you just, I dunno, go all glowy eye alpha on them and get them to leave before they start causing trouble for _us_?”

“He’s an alpha too,” Derek grunts, obviously annoyed to the highest degree. Stiles looks around Derek’s shoulder at the other alpha, sizing him up. He turns back to Derek, nodding seriously.

“You can take him.” 

Derek smirks, and Stiles grins back. He sighs again, more pleased than exasperated, and pulls Derek by the collar of his shirt to kiss him, fast and dirty, in all the ways he’s learned how. Derek’s mouth responds, and then he moves away looking hungry, eyes on Stiles’ lips that flit back into a naughty grin. He turns away, ready to face the other alpha again, and in the middle of Stiles punching his arm and saying, “go get ‘em, tiger,” all hell breaks loose. 

There are arrows flying through the air, and then arrows _inside people’s bodies_ , and Derek is half-wolfed out and pushing Stiles behind him before Stiles can even try to comprehend what has just happened. He can see from the corner of his eye the other pack fleeing, arrows and bullets hot on their heels. Hunters enter from the ceilings and Stiles doesn’t know how the others didn’t notice them, but it’s already too late. Derek’s shouting orders over the chaos, telling his betas to run, and they do, except for Scott and Allison who appear beside Derek. Scott is claws-out and standing in front of Allison the same way Derek is defending him, growling in the direction of the hunters who, Stiles can barely see around Derek and Scott, seem to be chasing after the other pack who have all but vanished. Stiles thinks that means it’s over, and they’re safe, but then a clear, cold voice echoes against the metal walls, chilling his bones.

“I _saw_ that, Derek.” 

Kate Argents voice is taunting and Derek goes still in front of Stiles. He peaks around the alpha’s shoulder until he sees her. She smirks at him for half a second, but there is no doubt that her eyes are locked on Derek. 

She’s moving—not pacing or advancing towards them, but lazily, mindlessly, like it’s just something to do. She has a crossbow in one manicured hand—complete with sparkling pink nail polish—pointed at Scott and a gun in the other, aimed efficiently at Derek’s forehead. Stiles would bet anything her precious wolfsbane bullet is lodged in the barrel of that shiny, black revolver. He wraps a hand around Derek’s bicep, digging his fingernails in. It’s practically an involuntary reaction at this point, to touch Derek, to assure that he is still within Stiles’ reach; he wouldn’t have even noticed that he’d done it if it weren’t for the way her eyes flash on his hand for the barest of seconds. 

“You and the Stilinski kid, huh?” she’s smiling; the kind of smile that hides something menacing, a secret, or a plot. 

“Aunt Kate—“ Allison tries to call out. 

“ Be _quiet_ , Allison. I’ll deal with you later. Right now I’m talking to Derek.”

Stiles hates—no, loathes the way she says Derek’s name. It’s demeaning, like he’s a dog, lower than she would even bother to consider; and possessive, like she owns something about him. Stiles would give anything to never hear his name come from her bubblegum pink lips again. Lips that are curved into that smile, the sinister grin that is reflected in her eyes, bright and excited, and Stiles is afraid. Some shadowy foresight overcomes him and he knows, he doesn’t know how but he just knows that she’s going to hurt him. She’s going to hurt Derek. 

“Talk about the past repeating,” she says, and laughs. A low growl forms in Derek’s chest, so low that Stiles is sure he’s the only human who could hear it, and only because he’s close enough to touch Derek. But something must show on his face as well, because she laughs again, smirking at him with an expression of nothing less than glee. 

“Come _on_ Derek, Derrie-poo. You must have noticed.” She gestures to Stiles, and his heart hammers in his chest. “What is he, 16?” 

Part of Stiles wants to make a witty retort; he’s _17_ , thank-you-very-much—but something holds him back. The growl in Derek’s chest doesn’t fade. It’s a steady sound of anger, and of fear. 

“And you,” she says, looking at Derek like he’s stupid, like he is the lowest of low, a joke. “You’ve got to be, what? 23? _24?_ Shame on you, Derek.”

The warehouse is silent, dead silent except for the growing growl from Derek, from the center of his chest. Suddenly she laughs, really laughs, and Stiles almost tumbles back. He expected something high and cold and clear, an evil laugh for an evil woman, but her laugh is disconcerting—a girlish giggle. It holds real amusement, like she really is entertained by whatever she’s taunting Derek with. 

“How does it feel, hm?” She says, eyes slits, locked onto Derek’s. “Does it get you off? Do you get hot thinking about fucking someone _so much younger than you_?”

Stiles heart stops. The initial panic finally dulled enough to allow him to fully comprehend what she was saying, and he wishes he never knew. She’s talking about _him_. About his and Derek’s relationship, the age difference, the reason Derek won’t fuck him until he’s turned 18. He suddenly feels sick, and the low, commanding growl he’d thought was coming from Derek’s chest is more like a whine. A pained, awful sound, and Stiles has never hated anyone more in his life than he hates Kate Argent for making that sound come from Derek. 

She looks ready to make another barbed statement, eyes gleaming, posture powerful, like she’s gained strength from causing Derek pain, pain that Stiles can only barely understand. Then, before she has a chance, Jackson and Isaac come from behind her, distracting her long enough for Scott to attack in front, managing to force the gun from her hand, disarming her of her most valuable weapon. Then she starts firing arrows from her crossbow, one purposefully striking the floor and blinding the wolves so she can make her escape. 

She’s at the door, but stops just inside it and there is no doubt in Stiles’ mind that she looks back at _him_ , and smirks, and then she is gone. 

There is quiet after that; the whining from Derek has finally stopped and Stiles swallows, looking down at his hand still clenches tight around the alpha’s arm. He releases it and takes a step back. Derek is not looking at him, jaw angled towards the ground as his claws retract. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say; doesn’t know what to do. He needs to talk to Derek, he really does—but he _doesn’t know what to say._ Scott, Isaac, and Jackson are looking towards him. Isaac and Scott look worried, though Scott continues to glance nervously in Allison’s direction. Finally, Derek grunts in Isaac’s direction, still refusing to turn towards Stiles. 

“Isaac,” he says, voice weak and choked. “Make sure Stiles’ gets home safe.” 

And Stiles doesn’t want to leave, not now, not after what—whatever it was—she did to Derek; but Isaac is by his side in a second, pulling him gently towards the exit, towards his jeep. He’s sure Derek will look at him, just look at him once before he’s gone. He’ll turn and give Stiles a familiar snarled smirk, and Stiles will grin back, and everything will be okay, _everything will be okay_.

But Derek only stands there, looking at the ground, hands clenched at his sides, until Stiles is gone. 

He’s halfway home before he realizes that Isaac has been trying to talk to him the whole ride. He turns to the obviously somewhat panicked beta. 

“Isaac…” he says softly. “When you see him, when you see Derek next, tell him that we need to talk.” He nods, frowning seriously. “Tell him not to be an idiot. Tell him… just tell him that, okay?”

Isaac’s eyes widen, and he looks back to the road, his grip on the steering wheel tight. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Stiles nods. 

The rest of the ride is quiet. 

His house is quiet, too, when he gets home. Isaac offered to come in for a little while, maybe play some video games to get their minds off things, but Stiles tells him that he’s tired and just wants to sleep. He can see that Isaac is worried about him, but he really is tired. He slumps up the stairs to his room, not even bothering to turn on the lights or change out of his clothes. Just as he is about to crash onto his bed, hoping that tomorrow will be better, he feels a hand pressing clothe across his mouth and nose. He’s either too tired or too surprised to struggle, and just before the drugs take him he looks down. In the glow of the moonlight from his window, the last things he sees before darkness are pink fingernails. 

 

Stiles didn’t go fully to sleep when she drugged him, and was faintly aware the entire ride (he tried to judge the length, possibly 45 minutes to 2 hours, he couldn’t be sure). His body wouldn’t cooperate, though, and every time he felt his senses returning to him someone would press the clothe over his mouth and nose again, giving him no choice but to inhale the sweet, awful scent and dull his limbs again. They (whoever they were) spoke very little the entire ride. She was driving, and would sometimes speak to whoever was in the back, apparently in charge of keeping Stiles subdued. She told him, Stiles assumed it was a him because he had large hands, not to be such a pussy about the chloroform. _It’s not supposed to kill you, just give him some more._ From somewhere in the back of his mind Stiles recalled chemistry class, and Harris’ seedy voice explaining something about the past medical uses of chloroform, though it did result in many deaths and was eventually replaced with a safer anesthetic. 

Stiles didn’t want to die. He definitely didn’t want to die a technical virgin, but he’d made Derek come and Derek had made him come so many times that at this point it was probably just splitting hairs that he hadn’t exactly been _fucked_ , or fucked someone himself. He mostly just didn’t want to die of something as dumb and boring as chloroform poisoning. 

But luckily, it seemed that whatever goon was in charge of his dosage had paid attention in chemistry too, and was only giving Stiles the barest amount, just enough to keep him under, keep him defenseless. 

He had to be carried into whatever secret hideout they’d found, and vaguely he felt the tightening of cold metal around his arms, his limp body supported by cuffs as his head lolled on his chest. They were talking, mostly she was talking, the voice most easily picked up, the one that made his skin crawl even under the influence of the drugs as he was now. He could already feel it wearing off though; it faded quicker than he expected, and he was just coming to himself when he heard a door slam closed. He didn’t even have to raise his head and look to know that he was now alone with her. 

Fine. Bring it on, _bitch_.

He was prepared to take whatever she could dish out. He hadn’t hug around with werewolves for over two years for nothing. It wouldn’t be like with Gerard. He didn’t cave so easy anymore. 

But she doesn’t do anything. While the drugs are still in affect, she grabs his face, pinching it and lifting his chin to smirk at him, only to drop it the next second and walk away. The lights go out, and Stiles assumes that she’s left. 

He’s still dead tired, and although he wishes he had the strength to stay awake, he knows that it’ll help him in the long run to get some rest. It barely takes seconds for him to sleep after he closes his eyes. 

It _feels_ like seconds that he managed to sleep before a bucket of frigid water is tossed at him. Through sputtering and blinking he sees her smiling, motioning to a big-boned girl holding the bucket. The girl looks like she doesn’t want to leave, but obeys, puttering out the door on the far side of the room that Stiles eyes thoughtfully before turning his attention back to the problem at hand. 

“Have a good night’s sleep?” She asks, the corners of her lips curled into a vicious grin, and Stiles won’t give her the satisfaction. He grins right back, fighting against his body’s involuntary shivering.

“It was alright, but this guest room can be a bit drafty at night. You might want to have someone look into it.” 

Her smile only widens, and Stiles’ shivering intensifies. Even though he’s covered in water, he’s just realized that he’s impossibly thirsty, and his wrists ache from being pinned a little higher than is comfortable. His feet only barely reach the ground and he has to stand on tippy toes, balancing uncomfortably as she circles him, gaze never flickering for a second, like a huntress stalking her prey. 

But if Stiles is prey, then he has already been caught, and is only waiting to be eaten. 

“Stiles, right? Yeah, I remember now. Always right beside my niece’s cute little beta with the big brown eyes—Scott.” She pauses, waiting for a reaction. Stiles gives her nothing. “But that’s not what I saw last night, is it?” 

She’s shaking her head, tutting at him like he is a confused child who has followed on some ill-advised path. The more he learns about her the more he despises her. 

“Don’t play coy, now, Stiles. You were tonguing the alpha in that warehouse last night. I saw that way he looked at you, like you were something to _eat._ ”

Stiles doesn’t care what she saw, it wasn’t as though he and Derek were trying to keep it a secret from anyone besides his father (for more sensitive reasons, like Stiles is worried his dad might actually have a heart attack to learn his son is dating a suspected murderer). What he doesn’t understand is why Kate would _care_? Care enough to kidnap him and taunt him, and talk to him the way she is now, condescending and cheeky, like she knows something he doesn’t. 

He didn’t think she hated Derek this much. She held him captive for days before and didn’t bother to kill him, focusing solely on the alpha at the time, but this time it seems her real focus is Derek, and Stiles wants to know why. 

…But then, there’s also some part of him that really doesn’t. 

“Your dad is the sheriff, right?” she asks, leaning against a table in front of and a little to Stiles’ left. “Oh, my god, does he know? He can’t possibly know. He doesn’t _know_ , does he, Stiles?”

She pauses like she expects Stiles to answer, but he just glares. Keeping his mouth shut has never been one of his greatest strengths, but he’s going to have to keep it up if he wants to get out of here mostly unscarred. He wonders if anyone’s noticed he’s gone yet.

She leans towards him a bit, away from the edge of the table she’s leaning on, like she wants to tell Stiles a bit of gossip, whisper it through those horrible bubble gum lips of hers. Lydia would never wear that shade of lip-gloss, Stiles notes, and it makes him feel better, somehow. 

“Should we tell him?” she asks, and lifts her phone, suddenly held in her hand. Stiles’ eyes go wide, staring at it like it’s a bomb that might go off. Because, yeah, on the list of ways for his father to find out he’s dating Derek Hale, getting a phone call from psycho chick who burnt his family alive is not at the top. In fact, it’s probably not even on the list. 

But, he thinks quickly, staring at the phone still held towards him in her manicured hand, if she called him, and got him involved, as the sheriff, it would be a piece of cake to track her phone back to wherever it is she’s taken him. He might be home and getting yelled at before lunch! Amazing how kidnap can help put things in perspective.

She seems to track his thoughts as he thinks them, eyes sharp, clever. She smiles a bit wider and drops the phone back onto the table.

“Nah. I don’t wanna cut this short so soon. Derek’s has to suffer first.” 

“So that’s the master-plan?” he asks, heart thrumming beneath his chest. “Kidnap me to torture the alpha, bring him out of hiding? Well, sorry to break it to you, but he really doesn’t give two shits about me.” He’s bluffing. He’s bluffing so hard, but it’s worth a try. “We have more of a friends-with-benefits relationship. Not even friends, really. More like, frenemies-who-fuck, so I don’t think he’ll be all that upset. He might not even bother looking for me. Scott might, eventually, though. But he’s not the one you want, so—“

“Nice try, Stiles. Admirable, really, but I’m not buying it. Derek is so pitifully _obvious_ when he’s in love—trust me, I would know. I could see it all over his face when he looked at you last night. And if you were just fuck-buddies I don’t think he would have made such an effort to defend you, either.” 

“Why him?” Stiles asks, giving up the pretenses. Maybe if he asks the questions he can flip this situation around. He might have read that in a book once. “Why now?’

She grabs her hair lazily, twisting it and letting it fall over her left shoulder in one big, blond curl. She looks bored, and Stiles’ wrists hurt and his throat cracks when he swallows. 

“Oh, I dunno. But, I think I was getting nostalgic. I was up in Vermont—if you ever get a chance to visit you really should, the vineyards are _beautiful_ —hunting a pack very similar to the Hale’s. Much more protective, though. Wouldn’t let a human near them unless another of the pack could vouch for them.” She picks up a lighter from the table, flicking it so it just spark and doesn’t ignite. Stiles feels sick; he wishes he could tune her out somehow so he doesn’t have to listen, doesn’t have to hear the pride in her voice, the joy of taking innocent lives. She smiles at him, then back at the lighter. “So, I pulled the same trick I did with Derek, but with a girl this time, barely 15 and a mess of insecurities. She was perfect, and as soon as I got close enough—“ 

The lighter in her hand ignites, the small flame reflected in her eyes, shining and amplifying to look like flames, consuming infernos that erupt in Stiles’ mind as his stomach turns, and he forces himself to look away, to close his eyes and breath deep. But something else gnaws at him. Did Derek have something to do with the Hale fire? She made it sound like she did something to him, and to this girl, this poor girl who’s family is now dead, burnt up and nothing but ash. Is there some darker secret about the fire that Derek never told him? 

He doesn’t think he wants to know. 

“Anyway,” she says, dropping the lighter onto the table and giving a small shrug, “it reminded me of dear old Derrie-poo out here in Beacon Hills, and I thought I would pay a visit. No one told me he was the _alpha_ now. Much harder to deal with alphas, especially if they already don’t trust you. But I knew I would find a weakness, and then last night, I did! And it was you! And that’s why you’re here, and why you’ll stay here until I’ve decided that Derek has suffered enough, and then I will put him out of his misery.” 

She stops smiling at the end, voice deadpanned and scarily seriously, and Stiles is more afraid for Derek than ever before.

Because she wants to kill him. 

 

Stiles knows, rationally, that he shouldn’t listen to anything Kate Argent tells him. There is already more than enough proof that she’s _insane_ for him to disregard every word from her mouth. She is the type that lies easily, lies for fun, and Stiles understands that, he does, but there’s something about the way she holds herself, the timbre of her voice when she speaks—it makes Stiles listen.

“Beacon fucking Hills, though, right?” she says, pacing along in front of him, swinging a crossbow in one hand and randomly firing it at the wall. It’s littered with holes, so this is apparently something that she does quite often. “It’s so weird being back again. I grew up here, did you know that?” 

She turns to Stiles and he raises an eyebrow like he gives _a fuck_ about her life story. He can’t tune her out, though. She’s human, and however careful she might be trying to be, she could let something slip that could save Stiles’ life. 

“It was pitiful back then—still is. I honestly don’t know why my brother would want to come back here. It’s so _boring_. The only thing to do was hunting, the normal kind, I mean. Until my dad let us in on the family secret, and things got _really_ interesting.” 

Stiles could just imagine. A young Kate Argent—knowing Gerard, probably much younger than Allison had been—firing her first crossbow at some poor, unsuspecting werewolf, lighting him on fire to finish the job. She’d probably loved it, and Gerard probably loved her. Stiles didn’t want to admit it, but Kate had a way for telling stories. 

“My dad hated the Hales,” she confesses in a deadpan. “Like, really, really hated them. Because he could never find a reason to take them out, you know. They had a squeaky-clean record at the time—not that it mattered. They were still monsters, but the other hunters needed probable cause or some bullshit, so my dad just kept an eye on them, just in case any of them ever slipped up.”

“And did they?” Stiles asks, partly to hear her say that no, what she did was out of pure bigotry, but also because a part of him was burning, a low, seething burn, to know if Derek was the cause, if she provoked him in some way and gave the probable cause. 

“No,” she laughs. “Besides a few rumors around town about wolf howls on full moon nights we never heard anything. They kept to themselves, mostly, though all the kids went to Beacon Hills High. Laura Hale was in my class. She only survived the fire because she was at college at the time. I had come home for spring break, but she must have stayed, or done something else, hell if I know what the bitch was doing.”

Stiles mouth is still impossibly dry, his clothes still damp from his earlier dousing, and there is an itch on his nose that he can’t scratch, frustrating the hell out of him. But Kate is talking. She’s talking about the fire, the one thing Derek will not talk about, not even when he licked into Stiles’ mouth on the front porch of the burnt out shell of a house still barely standing in the woods. And Stiles is curious. 

“So, was it more of a whim-type-thing? Did you wake up one day and decide that it was the perfect day for murder and arson? Oh! Was it your dad’s birthday? I can see it, give him the destruction of the werewolves next door that he hated so much. He probably even gave you a _hug_.” 

She’s stopped her pacing, crossbow dropped to rest against her thigh, and is staring at Stiles with something like confused curiosity. A smile begins to grow on her face, and Stiles already knows, somehow, that he’s said too much. 

“He,” she pauses, taking a step towards where he’s chained, eyes wide, excited. “ _He didn’t tell you, did he?_ ” 

She laughs, head thrown back, amazed and shocked. 

“Oh, my god, that fucking idiot, _of course,_ he didn’t tell you! Oh, this is too good. He’s out there right now, knowing that I’ve got you, and he _knows_ that you _don’t know_!”

She laughs again, and Stiles is afraid, nervous… dangerously curious. 

Curiosity has never been Stiles’ best friend. It is kind of the very reason he’d gotten his actual best friend bitten by a werewolf and wound up mixed in with all this insanity in the first place. He wishes he could just know everything, and that way he would never have to be curious again, and get himself into even more trouble. 

She pulls her phone, frowning at it for a moment and saying excitedly,

“It’s been, what, 14 hours since we took you? He has to know by now, maybe already looked all the places he won’t find you. God, I wish I could see his face! Not that it would even compare to his face when he found out—“ she pauses, giving Stiles a long look, and then shaking her head slowly. 

“No…” She slides her phone back into her pocket. “I don’t think I want to let you in on the secret just yet. I’ll give you a few more hours to digest, to fester and wonder and worry about your precious alpha. Because once you find out, there’s no going back. I’m not even sure you’ll be able to forgive him once you know.”

Stiles doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the confidence in her voice, the teasing smile, the way she set her crossbow down and walks towards the door, shooting him taunting looks as she goes. He doesn’t like the gnawing boil of doubt settled into his stomach, how confident she is _all the time_. He tries not to give up hope, but he doesn’t know how Derek is going to find him—and he doesn’t want to think about what Kate might tell him before he does. 

 

The big-boned girl, whom Stiles at one point felt bad for and elected to call her unfortunate-bob-cut girl in his head, comes in to give him some water. It’s warm and not nearly enough, but makes the pounding of dehydration in the back of his skull subside for a moment. When he tries to speak to her to give his thanks she hits him hard on the head. She’s demoted back to big-boned girl (and then just Mean Girl when the foods she’s supposed to be feeding him manages to get everywhere but his mouth).

He doesn’t like the think about the time, the amount of hours he’s already spent cuffed to the wall, sometimes left to staring blankly and other times joined by Kate, who only taunts him, teasing him with something she won’t reveal just yet. The bruises on his wrists and ache in his legs he can handle much better than her—she tries to take away his hope. 

He figures it’s been a full day already, a complete 24 hour span of time that he’s been held. He’s sure they know by now, his dad, probably Scott—and Derek. Stiles isn’t sure if he wants Derek to be the one to find him or not. He wishes he could keep Derek away from it all—away from Kate. There’s something she knows, something to do with Derek, and Stiles doesn’t like to think about the effect she so clearly has on him. 

The way he hadn’t looked at Stiles after she had taunted him in the warehouse, the defeated hunch of his shoulders and weak strain of his voice. Stiles hated it.

And Derek—he is protective. Stiles doesn’t even think it’s a werewolf thing, but more of a Derek thing. He doesn’t like Stiles hurt, doesn’t want him in the line of danger. And here Stiles went a got himself kidnapped, pretty much in the center of the danger and with no way to even try and convey to Derek that he’s okay, that he doesn’t have to worry, that he’ll be fine. He hopes Derek isn’t searching for him on his own. Someone has to be there to keep him sane, keep him grounded. 

Just as he’s wondering if they know yet that Kate’s the one who took him, she storms into the room, throwing her phone onto the tabletop with a loud bang. 

“ _Fucking_ incompetent idiots!” She gestures largely, turning to snarl in Stiles’ direction. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a group of decent hunters anymore? They’re all stupid, Stiles. And now your little werewolf pals are on my scent.”

She glances at him and something must show on his face because she smirks, shoulders relaxing as she leans one arm against the table. 

“Don’t get so excited, Stiles. This place isn’t so easy to find and I’m not ready to end our time together quite yet.” 

“Oh, joy,” Stiles deadpans. 

“Finally! It’s been so hard to get a word outta you—and I thought you were supposed to be the talkative one.”

“Yeaaaah, I don’t really go for the whole ‘forced communication’ thing.”

“Oh, Stiles. Silly. Nobodies forcing anything here.”

Stiles eyes his right-cuffed wrist and then his left, dropping his gaze back to her shiny grin and replying dully,

“I’m noticing a little bit of force. But, hey, maybe I would be more talkative if I could take a short break from my job as a living wall hanging.” 

“Nice try, but I like the look of you up there. Sorry it’s not really your size. Wasn’t exactly made for you,” she points out. “Stainless steel cuffs, unbreakable even for someone with more strength than a human, in case you haven’t tried breaking out yet.” 

Stiles had tried, because he was an optimist like that. He even contemplating breaking his thumb like his dad said some of the crazier guys he’s arrested had tried to do to escape their handcuffs. He abandoned that idea pretty quickly. He could barely move his wrist the metal was so tight and he didn’t think breaking his thumb would do anything but make him even more uncomfortable than he already was. 

“I have a matching collar,” Kate continues. “But I thought that would be just a little too,” she pauses to think of the word, then leans in his direction and smiles, “ _demeaning._ You may be fucking one of them but you aren’t technically one of them. You’re still one of us. The good guys.”

Stiles tastes something like bile on his tongue at the very accusation that he is _anything_ like Kate. He wants to open his mouth and defend against that statement, to show how very different they really were, to argue for Derek and Scott, and the whole pack about who the real good guys are because he’s damn sure it isn’t Kate. The longer he is forced to stay and hear her talk about werewolves like they’re scum, sit through her little teasing remarks about Derek, the thing she knows about him that she just won’t tell—the more Stiles is becoming convinced she is the devil himself. 

He just can’t get passed it, that she’s going to try and take Derek away from him.

Derek, who’s the best thing about Stiles’ life right now. Who holds Stiles when he sleeps and kisses him when he wakes up. Derek, who lets Stiles tease him and flirt with him and almost always does the same back, and that always makes Stiles’ stomach do backflips because he never thought that having someone like you back, like you back a lot, as much as you like them, to have someone _love_ you, would ever feel like it does with Derek. And the very idea of Derek no longer being in his life sends a chill so violent down his spine that if he could only see Derek right in that moment he knows he would just lose his mind, fisting his hands in Derek’s hair as he pulls his face close, kissing him violently and madly. He would kiss every inch of Derek he could touch, biting and sucking down Derek’s neck and making him moan Stiles’ name. He would pull Derek close, breath him in, then drop to his knees and act like a madman just to get Derek’s pants to his ankles and to taste him on his tongue. God, Stiles loves sucking Derek off. Loves the way Derek closes his eyes and holds one hand hard on the back of Stiles head and the other gently cupping his face from his jaw to the underside of his ear. 

Stiles is brought back from his thoughts by a sudden rumbling of his stomach. Kate glances at him with raised eyebrows and a surprised smile. 

“Oh, are you hungry? I’ll send Marge in with some food.” And then she leaves. 

 

This goes on for about another day. Stiles passes the time when Kate isn’t trying to get him to talk, or bond, or whatever the hell she’s trying to accomplish, by determinately _not_ worrying about how much Derek is probably freaking out by now. Judging by the fact that they still haven’t found him, Stiles thinks it’s safe to assume that Derek has destroyed a good bit of either the upper landing of the Hale house or the living room, as Stiles has learned he tends to do when he’s frustrated. (Stiles once pointed out that it was probably sexual frustration and he could definitely think of a few ways to help with that and Derek had just glowered at him). 

Kate’s visits are something Stiles’ quickly learns to loathe. Between her bigoted hatred of his werewolf friends, her teasing taunts and pitying, thoughtful stares, and even the very tone of her fucking voice, Stiles isn’t sure what annoys him more. All he knows is that she’s slowly but surely pushing him to the edge. He’s always hungry, always thirsty, his whole body aches and he can’t help but think about Derek no matter how hard he tries not to. 

It certainly doesn’t help that Kate’s very favorite thing to do is bring him up in every conversation she attempts to have, as if reminding Stiles constantly that she’s planning on killing the man he loves will somehow make him want to have a lively debate with her about the pros and cons Derek eyebrow grooming.

“You’re on the lacrosse team, right?” she asks after finally dropping the subject of whether the wolfsbane bullet is really strong enough and if she should look into finding a way to increase it’s potency and the time it takes to finish a werewolf off. 

She doesn’t wait for Stiles’ reply, because he hasn’t been giving any since the conversation about the stainless steel cuffs. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to hold himself back if he slips. 

“Derek was, too,” she informs him, and Stiles wishes he didn’t care, wishes she were easier to ignore. “Did he ever tell you that?” 

He still doesn’t say anything, but if his eyes flick her way instead of remaining fixed on the dirty splotch on the ground that he’d previously been occupying himself with she notices, and smirks. 

“I’m guessing that’s a no. Jesus, does he tell you _anything_?”

Stiles grits his teeth against the words that want to pour from his mouth. Derek has told him so many things, whispered them in his ears and grunted them out almost unwillingly, just because Stiles asked, because he’d wanted to know. What Derek did after the fire, how his relationship with Laura had been, what his parents were like, what he was like as a kid, what his favorite color is, his favorite movie, favorite book—all things that Stiles knows because Derek told him, all things that Kate will never know know. Stiles won’t let her. 

She doesn’t seem to notice his reaction, just flicks her hair and adjusts herself in the lounge chair she’s sitting in, just far enough from Stiles that she has to speak up. All it does is make her stories seem more potent. 

“Whatever. I don’t think he’d told his parents either. I don’t think he was supposed to be on the team,” she whispers like a gossipy secret, like she’s not talking about the very people she murdered all those years ago. “Actually, now that I think about it, he was the team Captain. He was all smug about it, too. Not just anyone gets to be Captain of the lacrosse team in their sophomore year. Unless, you know, he’s a werewolf.”

Stiles doesn’t like where this is going. He doesn’t like how sure she is, and he doesn’t like how much she knows about Derek. Young, unscarred Derek before the fire. 

“God, he was a cocky little shit back then,” she laughs. “A lot like your buddy, what’s his name—Jackson?”

No, no, no Stiles doesn’t want to hear how Derek was like _Jackson_ , not from her mouth, not like this, not like she knew him like—

“He had a gigantic ego,” she continues. “Like, you could see it from space. He was popular, had the hot girlfriend, Captain of the lacrosse team who won them every game. That’s where I met him, actually. At a lacrosse game.”

She’s staring at Stiles now, curiously cautious, like she’s waiting for something, waiting to decide whether or not she should go on. Stiles hopes she can’t tell how fast his heart is beating. The way she says she _met_ him would presume that she knew him after that, and Stiles wants to deny it, to find a way to say it’s wrong. But all he does is grimace and look away scowling. She seems to decide something, in that moment, and stands to stalk closer to Stiles, talking unenthusiastically as she goes,

“I was home for a while because my dad complained that I wasn’t spending enough time with family. Really he just wanted to guilt me into settling down like my dear brother had. I’m not really the settling down type,” she tells him, scrunching up her nose at the very idea. Stiles very carefully does _not_ roll his eyes and make a stupid comment, no matter how much his instinct is to do just that.

“But I was hooking up with the coach of the lacrosse team at the time—“

Stiles snorts, picturing Finstock and Kate making out, and it’s actually the first thing he’s found funny since she took him; but then she rolls her eyes like she knows exactly what he’s thinking and corrects him.

“The coach back then was _not_ that idiot you’ve got now. This guy was a fucking hunk and a great lay. I figured I could stop by his lacrosse game and then afterwards we could go back to his place and I could lick his abs because, let me tell you, they were _gorgeous_. He saw me before the game and we were talking, you know, about whatever, and he said he had this really great kid on the team this year, and wanted to introduce me to “the guy who’s gonna be scoring all the goals today,” and then he brought over Derek.” 

It didn’t seem funny anymore, as Stiles pictures it in his head, so clearly, so fucking painfully clearly that it hurts. He tries not to picture what happens next, but he _knows_ , he just fucking knows, and he can feel the bile rising already, the pounding in his ears that nearly drowns her out, but not enough, not nearly, ever enough. 

“I’ll bet you an picture it, can’t you, Stiles?” she says, and he can tell without looking, just by the tone of her voice that she’s grinning that fucking awful grin of hers that makes Stiles wish he never had the gift of sight to see that smile once more in his life. “Derek Hale, all of 16 and already hot as hell. Oh, he was still scrawny in some places, but he had a confidence that made it work. He stood tall and when he turned to me he gave me this cocky little grin, and, oh, Stiles, you should have seen the way he looked at me!”

Stiles tries to swallow back the gross, retched reflex coming up his throat, tries to force the image from his mind, but it just hangs there, glaring and ugly and _truth_ , Stiles wishes he didn’t but he knows somehow that it’s all true, every word. Derek’s eyes, the same eyes that have swept from Stiles’ lips to his neck and down, lower and lower and lower, doing the same to a 20-something year old Kate Argent, and then just as he pictures what comes next, Kate narrates, and Stiles thinks he’s had nightmares that didn’t hurt like this. 

Kate is staring at him, he knows she is, knows she’s reveling in his every reaction, and he wishes he could stop, that he were stronger, but he just can’t. 

“And the guy I was screwing introduced us then,” she crows, “raving about Derek like he wanted to fuck him himself, and Derek didn’t take his eyes off of me for a second, and then we shook hands, and the coach must have gave him some compliment, I can’t remember, but he nodded, and then he said he had to go, that the game was starting, and he hoped I was staying to watch. I said that I was, and he smiled and walked back over to the benches, glancing back at me every few minutes, until he finally turned around and I read the name on the back of his jersey.”

 _Hale_ , Stiles thinks, eyes fluttering closed painfully for the smallest of seconds.

“Hale,” she purrs like she’s won a prize, and Stiles imagines that she must have said that name the very same way that day all those years ago, and it only makes his stomach heave more, because everything she’d been hinting at, the thing she taunted him about that he didn’t know—this was it. 

“And as soon as I saw that name, I had an idea. I stayed and watched the game, and by halftime there was no doubt in my mind what Derek was, and I started getting excited. At the end of the game I dumped the coach. I think he was pretty pissed,” she adds, then waves her hand because it doesn’t matter, “I don’t remember. I found Derek pretty easily, and I knew without asking that he’d do anything for me, so I asked him if he’d like to hang out, and he was so fucking happy, it was adorable. God, he had these dimples that were just like—“

“ _What happened next?_ ” Stiles chokes out, and she turns to him from where she’d been talking to the wall near his head. She seems surprised at first, and then she grins, and Stiles can’t take it, he can’t fucking take any more. 

“What.” He says through gritted teeth, fighting himself and the sickness in his throat and his mouth because he wants more than anything not to know, but he _has to know_ , “Happened.” The last word is more frightened than he wishes it were. “Next.” 

She stands, grinning, pacing towards him from the table. 

“You really wanna know?” she asks, standing just in front of him, her stance confident and pleased. “Do you _really_ wanna know, Stiles?”

He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have to, because she raises her hands and places them on either side of him, making sure he’s looking her straight in the eye.

“ _I fucked him._ ” 

She says, low and clear, a proud smile stretched across her bubblegum lips. She leans into Stiles’ space, dropping her voice as her breath ghosts over his skin.

“I _fucked_ your pretty, little werewolf boyfriend—and then I _burned. His family. Alive._ ”

Stiles pictures Derek’s face so clearly in his mind it’s like he’s right there, standing just behind the blonde monster in pink nail polish—and it is like Stiles is seeing him for the first time. Seeing every hurt that scarred him in a new light, every frowning crease between his eyebrows and the deep, black bags beneath his eyes. He feels drops roll down his cheeks and then fingers snap in front of him.

“Hey, don’t start crying yet. I haven’t even told you how it ends.”

“I know how it ends,” Stiles mutters through dry lips, and it comes out in a broken rasp. He doesn’t want to hear any more, and he closes his eyes but he can’t close his ears no matter how he tries. 

“We hooked up for about a week,” she explains in a bored voice. “It was a hell of a hot week, I’ll give Derek that, but I was just waiting, you know, for _something_. I wasn’t really sure what, but then he called me one day and he was really excited, saying he could spend the whole day with me the next Saturday because his family was having this huge get-together and he was planning on ditching anyway.” She stops, laughs into her hand, Stiles feels sick again. “Oh, my god, he totally asked if I wanted to go to, like, a movie or something. I think he wanted to fucking _date_ me, how cute is that?”

Stiles tastes the salt from the tears he can’t wipe away. But he is starting to feel something other than sick churning his stomach and his skin sizzles. 

“Obviously I saw the opportunity this was—to take out all the Hale’s in one blow, so I turned poor little heartbroken Derek down and started planning. Got that Harris idiot to teach me how to start a fire and make it spread like that.” She snaps her fingers to demonstrate and Stiles hears the sound it makes echo through the room. “Hired a few extra hands to help. Not hunters, they follow the _code_.”

She doesn’t have to describe setting the fire; Stiles’ brain provides plenty of imagery for that. Plastering the doors and windows shut, circle of mountain ash around the whole building as the unsuspecting werewolves inside were too distracted by their guests to notice, the laughter and talking slowly dying when someone notices, smells the burning wood, and then someone says they feel warm. 

Derek, who had probably skipped out on his family get-together anyway, getting the call and coming home, so confused and he just _doesn’t understand_. Not _his_ family, there’s no way, it just couldn’t, it wouldn’t—and then he smells the mountain ash and he can’t breathe, and he’s suddenly _so angry_ , the kind of anger that Stiles knows won’t go away for the rest of his damned life, the same burning hate and fury that Stiles can feel bubbling up inside him, burning through his muscles and blurring his vision. 

“And I guess Derek had heard about the hunters who lived in town somewhere, but he didn’t know anything about us, and he came to our house, all fangs and angry tears. He was such a sad little puppy, howling at the house until we came outside. And then he saw me, and, really, the look on his face, Stiles. Nothing I’ve ever seen could compare to that poor little face of his when he realized what he’d done.”

Stiles flinches, hands balled into tight fists. 

“He ran at me, so I shot him. I was going to finish it off but someone stopped me. There were all these other hunters around, Derek was still underage technically and, you know, the _code_.” She rolls her eyes; Stiles can see her do it through the red glare he has set on her. “When the news of the fire spread, some of the hunters looked at me, so my dad and I decided to leave Beacon Hills. The end!”

Stiles levels his glare at her. She doesn’t even stop smiling. 

“Oh, come on, Stiles. Don’t be so sour.”

Stiles pulls as far as he can from the wall, towards her, never looking away from her wide eyes as he tells her calmly,

“Derek is going to come and get me out soon. And when he does, I’m going to make sure I hurt you, somehow, terribly, for everything you did to him.” 

“Oh,” She says innocently, feigning confusion. “But who’s going to hurt me for all the things I’m going to do to _you?_ ” 

 

“But, you are right about one thing, Stiles,” she continues, nodding. “It won’t be long before Derek finds this place and comes bursting in with his little pack of baby betas at his heels. You and I don’t have all that much time left and I want to make the most of it.”

Stiles doesn’t like the sound of that, but he’s more than ready for her. 

“I don’t care what you do to me,” he spits, glaring as she walks over to a far corner of the room where a few old cabinets sit and opens them, aimlessly looking through like she has all the time in the world. 

“Bold words for someone who has no way to defend himself. And thank god you’re finally talking again, it’s been so boring—like talking to a brick wall.” 

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Stiles replies sarcastically. He’d been keeping silent for Derek all this time, so he wouldn’t invoke any of Kate’s wrath. Derek would only get angrier if Stiles was hurt, so he tried his hardest to avoid it. 

But he is the angry one now, she isn’t worth his silence anymore, and he has nothing to lose. 

“Oh, this looks fun!” she says, and pulls a bat from one of the cabinets. Stiles looks away from her, staring towards the door as though willing it to burst open. He can’t stay cuffed to this way any longer, not when all he wants to do is exercise his muscles by slamming a first across her confident, grinning face. Derek will burst into the room any minute, and Stiles doesn’t care how broody Derek will be when he finds out he knows about what Kate did, because there’s some part of him that’s glad he knows. He wishes Derek could have been the one to tell him, and he’s confident that one day Derek would have, if given the chance. But now that he knows and has inherited the burning pit of anger that comes with knowing what Kate Argent did, not just to Derek, but to the entire Hale family—all he wants is blood. 

He can still hear her shuffling through the cabinets, making pleased humming noises for disregarding grunts every once in a while. He takes a deep breath, eyes fixed on the door, ears sharply tuned to any noise or commotion that might signal his friends coming to the rescue. 

Though, it’s not really that he needs or even wants to be rescued, he realizes when she makes her way back over to the table to his right, arms full of whatever she pulled out of the cabinets. He’s not nearly frightened enough to want to be rescued; in fact, he hasn’t felt the least bit scared since she told him what she did to Derek all those years ago. Rage is a funny thing. It’s almost impossible to feel anything else when you are as angry as Stiles is now. 

He doesn’t want to be rescued—he wants to be freed so that he can give Kate Argent a little taste of what she deserves.

“Alright, Stiles,” She says, voice demanding his attention, and he turns his glare towards the table to his right. “It’s time for the _really_ fun part!”

She’s set things down on the table, far enough down that Stiles can see them from the angle he’s at if he turns his head enough. There is a baseball bat, a mechanical device with wires and clips and a small nob that reads VOLTAGE at the top, a container of gasoline, and a box of matches. 

“I thought I would let you have a bit of input,” she explains, leaning against the table to look from Stiles to the baseball bat. “See, I’m not an idiot. I know that when Derek shows up it won’t just be a walk in the park killing him.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise slightly, and he tilts his head questioningly at her, as though asking if she’s not confident she can take out one little pack and it’s relatively inexperienced alpha when she’s already managed to murder an entire family.

“I have a plan,” she replies to his unvoiced question, shaking her head dumbly. “It’s just not foolproof, so I thought up a backup. If I can’t _kill_ Derek, I’m going to find a way to make the rest of his pathetic life as miserable as it can possibly be. That’s where you come in.” 

She motions to the objects on the table. 

“I don’t see what I have to do with your Christmas presents,” Stiles replies flatly. She laughs, and Stiles only grows angrier. 

“These are your choices, Stiles. See, I figure the best way to torment Derek isn’t to hurt him, but to hurt something he loves. And to hurt that something in a way that _lasts_. So, where do we start? Oh, well there’s the electricity—a personal favorite of mine. Works wonders on werewolves, and I’m not too sure how much it hurts a human. We can find out together, what do you think?”

“A bit unoriginal,” Stiles replies, glancing at the door again. “Also a little too Frankenstein.” 

She pouts.

“You might be right. Well, we’ll come back to it. The baseball bat is nice. It’s simple, and the bruises and broken bones will hurt Derek much more than they’ll hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you too badly, Stiles. I kind of like you.” 

“I kind of want you dead.” Stiles bites back pleasantly. 

“I’m partial to the fire, mostly for the poetry of it,” she continues, almost managing to ignore him but for the smile that spreads her lips. “His family burns alive and then his boyfriend winds up with burns scarring half of that beautiful, young skin of his. Not a single cute, little mole left, and Derek would see it and every single time be reminded that it was _his fault_. Oh, I think I’ve just talked myself into the fire, but I’ll let you have your say. Any thoughts?”

“You’re an insane fucking bitch,” Stiles observes, “and I really hope there’s a hell, just so you can go visit some time. Maybe have a chat with Hitler about the benefits of burning people alive.” 

Stiles can’t let himself think about what would happen if she really did burn him. Because everything she said was right; Derek would blame himself, and hate himself, and never be able to look at Stiles again without wincing, and Stiles doesn’t think he could take that. He’s one of the only people who can make Derek smile; Derek confessed that to him once. Stiles isn’t willing to give that up. Not to her. 

“Hm,” She nods thoughtfully. “Well, I’m stuck. I just can’t decide. You are too great of an opportunity to pass up though, Stiles. I have to do something to you. I mean, I still can’t get over it. Derek sleeping with an underage human!”

She laughs, and the anger blurs Stiles’ mind, because he doesn’t want to think about it, can’t think about it, won’t think about Derek, young and impressionable and so, so innocent, and _jesus_ , probably a virgin, just like him, manipulated and tricked and then hurt in the worst possible way. And Stiles finally understands why it took Derek so long to trust him, and then even longer to kiss him, and he knows why Derek won’t go all the way with him, and it’s because _he doesn’t want to be like her_. 

“It’s like,” she says, grinning up at the ceiling, sounding so proud it makes Stiles want to puke, “you hope they grow up to be like you, and Derek really—“

“ _He is nothing like you!_ ” 

He’s breathing heavily, hard and pounding and mad. He knows the moment it’s left his mouth that he’s made a mistake, but he can’t take it back so he doesn’t even bother trying. Just fixes her with a harsh glare and grits his teeth in his mouth, the door just in his peripheral. 

“Of course he is,” she replies, slowly and quietly. “Sure, he’s not going to go and kill what’s left of your family, but he’s still fucking an underage kid, just like I…” She trails off, and Stiles knows that it clicks, right then, and she smiles like he hasn’t seen her smile before. It’s the worst one he’s seen yet. 

“He _is_ fucking you, isn’t he? Look, I know Derek, I slept with him for Christ’s sake, and he’s not the type to hold back—except for now. Oh, wow. Wow. He totally hasn’t fucked you yet, and you’re not even denying it!”

“I said,” Stiles repeats carefully, “that he is _nothing_ like you.”

“Yeah, okay, you win. But this is much better, Stiles. So much better, oh my god. I’ve just had a brilliant idea!” She steps away from the table, away from the bat and the gasoline and the matches, and towards Stiles. He sucks his chest in and holds his breath. 

“Forget all this boring stuff, Stiles,” she says, waving a hand back at the table, approaching him slowly, like a predator. “I know something that will hurt Derek more than anything else. And, as an added bonus, there’s no way he’ll ever touch you again without knowing that _I got here first!_.” 

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me!” 

“Whoops,” she smirks, “I always did like them young.” And her hands, her fucking pink nail polish covered fingers are at the line of his jeans; he can feel them and he can’t breathe. Then, they slide beneath his shirt, raking across the skin of his stomach and he can’t, he can’t get enough air into his lungs. And she moves up, and he can hear something, something from very far away, but then her breath is on his face, her fucking pink bubblegum lips draw near his and he’s going to bite, he’s going to bite her lips off if he gets even the smallest chance. She presses her lips against his, and he’s about to do it, and he’s going to sink his teeth into her skin and if it only wounds her for a second it will be okay. He’s ready to bend his neck forward and bite her, and her hands are on him and her lips are on him, and he hates her, he hates her so fucking much, and right as he’s about to do it the door bursts open and Derek _snarls_ ,

“ _NO!_ ”

Kate is off of him in a second, pul;lng her cross bow from her waist and shooting as she dives sideways towards the table. Derek is too fast though, and like a blur Stiles sees him grab her and toss her across the room without another glance. 

Stiles can breathe again. 

Derek is at him in a second, hands on each side of his face, and the most horrible, awful look of worry and pain etched into his expression. 

“Are you okay? She didn’t do anything to you, Stiles? _Fuck,_ Stiles, tell me—“

“Get me out of this,” Stiles growls at him, eyes on Kate who is starting to make her move towards the door. Stiles isn’t going to have that. 

Derek looks surprised, but nods. At the angle he’s at he manages to rip the cuffs clean off the walls. They’re still around Stiles’ wrist but he doesn’t notice or care. He dives for the baseball bat right away, curling his fists around it and letting the burning anger fill him again. 

Behind him Derek says his name. Stiles ignores him and makes his way towards Kate. She looks scared, and Stiles only wants her to look more scared. With intent firm in every muscle, he raises the bat and swings. 

The blood doesn’t even phase him, because it’s _her_ blood. Not human, not the blood of a person—a monster’s blood. 

He swings again, and the bone of her nose cracks, teeth go flying. He drops the bat and is satisfied. 

She’s still conscious, and he’s glad; one more hit and she probably wouldn’t be. He leans down to make sure she can hear him, then he speaks,

“You won’t be seducing any more young werewolves with that face, Kate.” 

Behind him, Derek takes a sharp intake of air. Stiles ignores him for the moment; they have plenty of time to talk about it, to make it okay. He continues. 

“Leave Beacon Hills. Never come back here, or I _will_ finish it.” 

He sees something in her bloodshot eyes that makes him think she’s understood, and he stands, turning around to find Derek standing right at his back. He looks like he wants to say everything and nothing all at once. 

“Stile—“

Stiles cuts him off quickly by grabbing his face and kissing him. It’s hard and sharp when it starts, until he feels Derek’s body relax against his; and then it’s soft and reassuring until he finally pulls away and Derek is looking at him like he’s never seen him before, but somehow loves him anyway. Stiles bets that he looks pretty much the same. 

He takes one of Derek’s hands, and for the first time notices that his are shaking. Derek nods and takes a deep breath, leading Stiles towards the door. Just as they’re about to leave her hears her voice again, and it doesn’t even matter what she says, because as soon as she speaks Stiles is sure he very simply never wants to hear her voice again. 

Her mouth is broken and bloody and can barely formulate words, but Stiles can understand it anyway. 

“He’s never gonna fuck you, Stiles! He’s too fucking screwed up!”

And she laughs, and coughs, and it’s awful. Derek growls and tries to pull Stiles through the door, but Stiles won’t move. 

“Derek,” he says calmly, holding out the hand not entwined with the alpha’s palm up. “Your phone, please.” 

Derek reaches slowly into his pocket and fishes it out, handing it to Stiles and staring at him confused and awed and all sorts of things Stiles will have to make fun of him for later. It picks up on the second ring. 

“Peter? Yeah, It’s Stiles. Listen, I’ve got a present for you.” 

 

Scott and Isaac give him a huge sandwich hug once they’ve all gotten away from the creepy underground bomb-shelter type base Kate had set up. Scott then get all wide-eyed and commiserating with him. 

“God, she was creepy enough and I only met her a few times. I can’t image what being _kidnapped_ by her would he like. Where is she, anyway? Did she get away?”

“She’s taken care of,” Derek answers before Stiles has a chance to, and they lock eyes for a fraction of a second. Stiles thinks Derek looks just a little bit proud of him, impressed maybe—but it might have been a trick of the light. He’s just glad he didn’t get any of the blood on him. 

Stiles is still caught up at the lighthearted lilt of Scott’s shoulder’s, the way he thinks it’s just all over, just like that.

Because he doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know what Stiles knows, and when Derek pulls him in close once Scott and Isaac (Allison and Lydia were forbidden from coming and Jackson didn’t really care what happened to Stiles) are finished with him, Stiles realizes that Derek knows now that Stiles knows.

“We need to talk,” he says, after Scott manages to find a key to the cuffs and finally frees Stiles’ wrists, and Derek pulls him over to the Camaro and shoves him into the passengers seat. He starts the car.

“You need to sleep. It’s a long drive. We can talk when you’re home.” 

“How has my dad been?” 

“Fine. Scott told him you two went on a surprise road trip.”

“And he believed that?” Stiles asks incredulously through a large yawn. 

“Isaac does a very accurate impression of you over the phone. _Sleep,_ Stiles.”

Stiles sighs, long and heavy and exhausted. Just before he passes out he feels Derek grabbing a hold of one of his hands. Stiles might wonder if Derek does that for the same reason he does, to remind himself that Stiles is there, touchable, a real thing that he can feel—but by then he’s already gone. 

 

When he wakes up it’s dark, and he panics for a moment because it was definitely daylight when he went to sleep. He jerks up in the seat of the Camaro and then Derek places a hand in the center of his chest to calm him down. He takes a deep breath and folds his hand over Derek’s, so impossibly glad to be able to touch him again after days of worrying and thinking about him every moment with Kate’s taunts about killing him constantly in his ears. 

He looks out the window and sees his house in the distance. 

“How long have we been sitting here?” 

“For a while,” Derek replies. “I didn’t want to wake you and your dad is home.” 

Stiles groans, just realizing something.

“I have to go to school tomorrow, don’t I?” 

“It’s a holiday.”

“What holiday?” Stiles asks skeptically. He wouldn’t put it above Derek to lie to him so that he rests instead of going right back to school after being kidnapped. 

“President’s Day,” Derek tells him, and after thinking it over for a minute Stiles concludes that he’s right, tomorrow is, in fact, President’s Day.

“Good,” he sighs. It’s quiet for a moment, then he speaks up again.

“I was thinking…” he clears his throat. “I think we should tell my dad.” 

Derek doesn’t give a reply, just offers Stiles a look that makes him add hastily,

“Not, you know, right now. Just… some time soon.”

“Okay,” Derek agrees, almost too easily. “You should probably get inside.” 

“We haven’t talked yet.”

“We’re talking now.”

“You know what I mean,” Stiles rolls his eyes. He looks closer at Derek’s face and sees something there that makes him swallow thickly. “Meet me in my room?”

Derek hesitates for a moment, then nods. Stiles stares at him silently then leans across the seats to pull Derek into a kiss. Derek doesn’t turn his head or push Stiles away, but he doesn’t really kiss him back either. Stiles pulls away with a sigh and opens the door. After he steps out he leans back in, fixes Derek with his best “you better listen to me, Mr. Sourwolf” gaze, and repeats firmly,

“Meet me in my room.”

Derek nods and starts the car. Stiles almost doesn’t want to, but he closes the door and turns to walk towards the stairs of his house. Just as he’s about to open the door it suddenly opens from the other side and his dad nearly rams into him in his hurry to get his jacket on as he steps through.

“Stiles!” he says, clearly surprised. “You’re back early. I thought you were gonna be gone the whole long weekend.”

It takes Stiles about 4 seconds to remember what Derek and Scott had told his father to keep him from wondering where Stiles suddenly vanished to for the weekend, and then he smiles dimly and replies,

“Yeah, uh, Scott just dropped me off. You know him, he can barely stand to be away from Allison for more than 24 hours these days.”

His dad laughs and steps onto the porch, not closing the door behind him so Stiles can go in after. 

“Well I wish you would have told me about it _before_ you’d left, but I hope the trip was good. You can tell me all about it later, I just got called in, probably won’t be back until morning.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, feeling relief wash over him like waves. He doesn’t like when his dad is called in for the all-nighters, but tonight it’s a blessing; he needs the house to himself for the conversation he and Derek about to have. 

“See you, son,” His dad says, ruffling Stiles’ hair as he hops down the stairs and over to the cruiser. Stiles waves until he’s pulled out of the driveway then takes a deep breath and goes inside, closing the door softly behind him. He makes his way slowly up the stairs, feeling keyed up and anxious and not the least bit tired after the nap he’d taken in Derek’s car. He opens his bedroom door and sees Derek leaning on the far side of the room, waiting for him in the minimal light pouring in from the window. He exhales upon seeing Derek there.

“I almost didn’t think you were gonna come,” he says, taking a seat on his bed so that he’s facing Derek and the window. 

“What did she do to you?” Derek growls out, and Stiles can hear every fear and that must have plagued Derek since he learned that Kate took Stiles, and it nearly breaks Stiles’ heart. 

“She didn’t do anything,” he sighs calmly, and Derek cuts him off with a sharp reply.

“ _Don’t!_ ” he barks. “Don’t fucking try to tell me she didn’t do anything to you. She was on you, she was _kissing you_ , so don’t lie to me to try and protect—“

“I’m not lying!” Stiles yells, rising from the bed. “You stopper her, Derek. You stopped her before she could do anything, I swear!” 

“I don’t believe you! I saw what you did back there, I saw you fucking bash her face in with a baseball bat and I _know_ she must have done something to make you hate her that much, Stiles, I _know!_ ” 

His chest is heaving and his face is so angrily contorted in the shadowy light of a grimace, and there are gleams of the white of his fangs, and Stiles loves him so much. 

“You have to trust me, Derek,” Stiles pleads. “I hated her, I hated her so fucking much that it hurt, that I wanted to hurt her. But not because she did anything to me, because she barely _touched me_ , Derek, because you stopped her. I hated her so much because of what she did to _you_ , and I know why you didn’t tell me, but I wish I’d heard it from you instead of her because then I wouldn’t feel like she still _won_ something!”

“She’s dead.”

Stiles freezes and looks up, wide eyed and shocked. 

“Peter called and told me, said he thought I should know.”

“Oh,” Stiles mutters weakly, falling back onto the bed. He’d known what calling Peter would mean, but to hear it confirmed himself was something else. 

“Oh. Did—did Peter know?”

Derek seems to understand exactly to what Stiles is referring. 

“No.”

“Did Laura know?” Stiles whispers in the darkness. 

“No,” Derek murmurs back, sounding broken and wretched and awful and Stiles just wants to hold him until he doesn’t sound that way anymore, until he’s back to being the Derek that Stiles knows. “No one—I never told—I’m sorry, Stiles, I—“

And then he starts trying to make his way out of the window; to run off and avoid talking about it and Stiles doesn’t let him. He grabs Derek’s arm and holds him as still as he can, and Derek somehow lets him. 

“Where the hell are you going?” 

“Leaving,” Derek replies, face turned away from Stiles. 

“The hell you are! Derek, fuck, please just _talk to me._ ”

“Talk about what?” Derek explodes, turning on Stiles and screaming, and Stiles stands there and he lets him. “Talk about how I killed my entire fucking family? Talk about how I fucked up my life because I was too busy listening to my dick to fucking wonder for one second why a girl like Kate would bother with a kid like me? How I set them up, and killed them all, and couldn’t even get revenge because it was _me_ , Stiles, _my fault,_ and they were all dead and I slept with her and then she killed them, and it might as well have been _me_ , it fucking _should have been me!_ ” 

“Don’t say that shit, Derek, don’t you fucking dare,” Stiles hisses as he gets right back up in Derek’s face. “It was her! _All of it was her!_ She was going to kill you, she told me so herself, and she was going to hurt me so that she could hurt you and I couldn’t let her _goddam do that!_ Because she already hurt you so much, and I—I couldn’t—“

“Stiles!” Derek breathes and draws Stiles in closer to him, smashing their lips together as Stiles knots his hands in Derek’s hair, pulling him in and never wanting to let go. And he thinks for a moment what he would have done if she had managed to kill him, and he holds on tighter, and Derek’s hands are shaking where he’s holding onto Stiles so tightly that it almost hurts. He’d almost forgotten what Derek tasted like, and he realizes right in that moment that he never wants to forget again.

“Love you so much,” Derek mumbles against his lips. “Was so fucking scared, and we couldn’t find you anywhere, and I didn’t know what she would do to you. God, when she was there in that warehouse, and she saw you, and she said—“

He stops like he can’t go on anymore, and Stiles knows, he understands so well that it hurts. 

“You. Are _not_. Like her.” He says, slowly and carefully, pronouncing every word so that Derek will listen and believe them. Derek looks him in the eye, nods. 

“I was going to—I was going to come here and break up with you,” he confesses quietly. “After the warehouse. Because I couldn’t get her words out of my head, and I kept thinking that she was right, that I was just like her and was taking advantage of you because you’re young and innocent like I was, and just because I hadn’t gone all the way with you didn’t make a difference, because I had already touched you and corrupted you, and she _knew_. But when I got here you weren’t here, and I could _smell_ her.” He takes a shallow breath. “And I couldn’t lose you.” 

He trails a hand over the curve of Stiles lips, down to his chin, and Stiles shudders. 

“You didn’t lose me, idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“And she’s gone now.” 

Derek is silent for a moment, and then he rets his forehead against Stiles’ and breathes softly,

“Yeah.” 

“Come to bed?” Stiles asks, hopeful. He can barely see Derek’s face in the low light but he can hear in his voice that he smiles when he replies,

“Yeah.” 

 

They don’t go to sleep; neither of them is tired enough for that. Instead they settle above the covers, Derek leaning against the wall with Stiles in his lap, arms encircling him like he needs to constantly be sure that Stiles is there, safe and in his arms. Stiles turns his head every few minutes to kiss the scruff of Derek’s cheek and Derek nuzzles his nose into the back of Stiles’ neck when he turns back around. Eventually it’s just enough for Stiles’ pulse to start racing and blood to rush down to his suddenly interested cock. Derek can sense it, he knows, and a chill runs through his body when Derek presses his teeth lightly at the pulse point in his throat. 

“So fucking glad she didn’t touch you like this,” he murmurs across Stiles’ skin, kissing lightly as his hands scrape across the top of Stiles’ palms. 

“ _No,_ ” Stiles gasps, already forgetting how to speak. “O—only you, _god, Derek,_ , touch me.” 

“I still can’t fuck you,” Derek replies seriously, almost regretfully, and Stiles swallows, collecting himself long enough to answer seriously,

“I know. And I know why now, and I get it, Derek, I really do. Just—I need, fuck, Derek, I need you to touch me.”

Behind him Derek doesn’t move for a moment, then he quickly turns Stiles’ head so their lips meet, and when he pulls away he’s looking everywhere on Stiles’ face until he stops at Stiles’ eyes and his expression takes Stiles’ breath right from his chest. 

“The _day_ you turn eighteen,” he says, voice rough and blown with lust and it goes straight to Stiles’ cock, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to fucking _walk_ , Stiles.” 

“Holy _fuck,_ ” is all Stiles manages before Derek continues, his stubble scratching the back of his neck. 

“I’m going,” the alpha growls, “to tease you for hours. I’ll start,” he pauses and Stiles feels his hands move up to the collar of his shirt, carefully undoing the top button, “by taking off your clothes and tasting everything that I find underneath them.”

He has four buttons undone by then and slips the shirt from Stiles’ shoulders, pressing his mouth to the skin he can now reach lower on Stiles’ neck. Stiles moans his name and Derek finishes the buttons, sliding the shirt from Stiles’ arms agonizingly slowly, pressing kisses along the inside of his arm like he’s following the line of fabric until it’s completely gone and tossed across the room. He slides his hands underneath the t-shirt Stiles was wearing beneath the flannel. His hands move impossibly slow and Stiles squirms, hands grabbing a hold of the fabric of Derek’s pants to stop himself from touching the bulge below his zipper. He bites his lip to stop from moaning at the warm tickle of Derek’s fingertips. 

“I’ll touch every single inch of you, kiss it and mark it and taste it until there isn’t a single place on your body I can touch without you moaning my name.” And just then he lets a finger glide over one of Stiles’ nipples and Stiles is not proud of the way Derek’s name slips past his lips like a fucking prayer. He tries to turn around and kiss Derek again, but Derek moves a hand up to his neck to keep him looking forward while the hand being constantly lifted up and down by the movement of Stiles’ chest starts peeling the t-shirt up and over his head. 

“I’m going to make you wait forever before I ever so much as look at your cock, because I know you love it when I make you wait.”

“Oh, fuck you, Derek, I do not!” he chokes out, eyes fluttering closed as Derek squeezes tight around his hips, thumbs dipping below the line of his jeans. 

“Really?” Derek asks, amusement obvious in his tone, and Stiles huffs out a broken laugh because even he knows he’s lying, can feel the way his body is reacting to the light touches and the teasing words pouring from Derek’s lips. “We’ll see.”

He leans forward to start kissing and marking Stiles’ skin, moving from the top of his neck down and down and down his spine, all the while holding on to Stiles’ hips so that he can’t squirm away when it gets to be too much and he think’s he’s going to go insane or blow his load right then and there, and not even biting his lips shut stops the constant stream of curses and noises that spill from his mouth. 

“Going to _worship you,_ Stiles, god, you’re going to be so wet for me before I ever touch you,” and his grip on Stiles’ hips loosens enough when he nips at the back of Stiles’ ear that Stiles jerks forward, gasping, hands digging so tightly into Derek’s legs that it would leave marks if he were human. Derek carefully pulls him back between his legs, hands still loose as on his hips as he slides them down to gently undo the button of Stiles’ jeans. The zipper sounds impossibly loud in his ears as Derek pulls it down, his voice far away and breathy and _perfect_.

“I’m not going to let you come,” he says, and Stiles whimpers, squeezing his thighs together to get some kind of fucking pressure as his pants are pulled awkwardly down to his ankles and then unceremoniously kicked off and left on the edge of the bed. He opens his eyes that have been tightly shut so he didn’t have to have the added image of Derek’s hands undressing him along with the terrible, wonderful sound of his voice tickling his ear. His boxers are tented, pressing against the overly sensitive skin of his cock and there is a wet spot where his tip is leaking, just like Derek said it would be. 

“ _Shit,_ Derek,” he moans, and there must be something in his voice because Derek stills, asking softly in his ear,

“Do you want me to stop?”

“What?” Stiles gasps back, not even a little bit sure how Derek could have gotten that idea. “No, fuck, don’t stop. This is so fucking— _Jesus,_ like, wow, this is the best fucking thing ever. Don’t you dare stop, asshole.” 

Derek’s chest shakes against his in silent laughter and if Stiles’ face weren’t already bright red from every word that Derek already said it would probably grow a shade darker. Derek shifts behind him, sitting up a little straighter and suddenly Stiles can feel his erection pressing against his back. He shivers and Derek must feel it too because he growls and lets his fingers dig into Stiles’ stomach for a fraction of a second before easing up and pressing his lips again to the back of Stiles’ ear.

“I’m going to make sure you come while I’m inside you,” he mutters, and if possible his voice sounds even more wrecked than before, and Stiles can’t see but he imagines the way Derek’s eyes are lidded and heavy and scraping over every part of him, resting on his tented boxers before slipping his fingers past the elastic and pulling them down the same way he’d pulled off Stiles’ pants, finally letting the cool night air hit the burning flesh of his achingly hard cock. Stiles’ hisses and swallows, cursing below his breath, and Derek just keeps fucking going.

“I’ll use lube, make you even more wet, and open you up for me,” he whispers huskily. “God, I’ll bet you’re gonna be so fucking tight, Stiles.”

“Shit, shit, _holy fucking shit!_ ” he can feel his cock twitching with every word as he imagines it just the way Derek describes. If he tries hard enough it’s almost as if he can _feel_ it. 

“Will we use a condom?” Derek asks, and it’s such a fucking dick move for him to try asking Stiles a goddam question when Stiles is very obviously not in any place to try and answer coherently.

“No,” he manages to gasp, rocking his hips back against Derek to distract himself from the way Derek’s hands are touching him every-fucking-where except his cock. He’d thought about this before anyway. There isn’t much point in the condom, what with their being two men, one of which is a virgin and the other an STD-immune werewolf. “Wanna feel you inside me, just you—“

“ _Yes_ ” Derek moans back. 

The next thing Stiles knows Derek has flipped him over on his stomach, face and chest pressed into the blankets of the bed as Derek leans over him, chest pressed flush to his back, and he doesn’t know why Derek still has a shirt on, but then he doesn’t even think about it anymore because Derek finally wraps his hand around Stiles’ cock, gripping the base tightly as he growls in his ear,

“This is how I’m going to take you.” He strokes his hand up Stiles’ cock once and Stiles practically screams. “I’m going to spread you and bend over you just like this, Stiles. Gonna fucking _take_ you all fucking night, have you screaming my name until you can’t can’t talk anymore, until you’ve come more times than you can count, and then I’m going to keep fucking you. _Fuck,_ , Stiles, you’re not even going to be able to think, once I’m inside you.” 

He keeps stroking Stiles, faster and faster with one hand, and somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind he realizes that Derek is stroking himself with his other hand, and Stiles’ knees are barely supporting him, and it’s only Derek’s arm looped underneath him that’s keeping him up. Heat is pooling low in his gut and he’s biting the blankets, hips moving wildly in rhythm to Derek’s hand, and Derek is still talking, chanting in his ear and filling his mind with nothing but Derek’s voice and the smell of their sweat and come dirtying the bed. 

“You’ll feel so good around me, Stiles. You always feel so good when I touch you, and your fucking _voice_ , fuck—“

“ _Derek, Derek, fuck, I’m gonna come, I—_ “

He arches his back and Derek strokes him through it, whispering more into his ear that he can’t hear, he can’t hear anything for seconds, all he can do is feel Derek pressed against him and his hand holding him tight. Finally he collapses, knees giving up supporting him like his lungs have apparently stopped wanting to let enough air into his body no matter the size of the gasps he takes. He vaguely hears Derek’s string of curses and vows as he comes, always coming longer than Stiles, and coming so much Stiles wonders how he could ever come again afterwards. He feels Derek fall onto the bed beside him, arms wrapping around and holding him tight, breathing in his scent as he buries his nose in Stiles’ hair before moving so his lips press to the back of Stiles’ ear. 

They stay that way for a while, he’s not sure how long. Eventually he manages to regulate his breathing, and regain command of his brain. He gets an idea and slides out of Derek’s arms to the alpha’s obvious displeasure. 

“What are you doing?” he asks as Stiles rummages around in his room. He comes back to the bed with his and Derek’s phones, pressing buttons so the screens light up his face. He doesn’t answer at first, then he crow triumphantly and turns the phone so Derek can see what he’s done.

“I set an alarm!”

“For what?”

Stiles grins slyly. 

“My birthday.”

Derek hums, grabs the phones and tosses them to the floor. Stiles makes an enraged sound that quickly squeaks away when Derek pulls him in close again, this time facing him so that he can lean in and kiss Stiles slowly and softly, nipping at Stiles bottom lip when he pulls away smiling. 

“I can’t wait,” he mutters into Stiles’ mouth. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, grinning hugely.

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wonder how many times I wrote the word "fuck" in this fic because i feel like it was a fucking lot.
> 
> For the story to work I had to write Peter pretty much out completely and that is such a damn shame because he is actually like one of my favorite characters and I seriously hope he returns in season 3 as hilarious and awkward Uncle Peter because _yes._
> 
> I hope anyone who read this liked it, and I hope to be adding more Sterek fics soon! (this ship is _addicting_!!!)


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